


feeling things will reel you in (and spit you out again and again)

by oncewewerezombies, Snailman



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Beforus (Homestuck), Beforus Culling (Homestuck), Bigotry & Prejudice, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Fucking on the couch, Hemospectrum, Illustrations, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, References to Canon, Stereotypes, Teen Romance, Teen Runaways, weebden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27710681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snailman/pseuds/Snailman
Summary: Before Meenah absconded to the moon, before the Game - Rufioh and Damara were in love and living in a treehouse, avoiding the Empire's culling system.
Relationships: Damara Megido/Rufioh Nitram
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13
Collections: Dancestor Mini Bang 2020





	feeling things will reel you in (and spit you out again and again)

**Author's Note:**

> Art done by the amazing [Mare!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snailman/pseuds/Snailman)

Culling was a load of bullshit.

You hadn't wanted to do what you were told, and you'd always been looking for a way out. Just because your blood runs hot and your colour is rusty burgundy, it means nothing when it comes to your desire to rule your own fucking life. It had taken meeting Rufioh for you to know that there was another way. A different way.

That you really could just throw everything that was expected of you into the fucking garbagedray and _run_. More than just run - that you could _fly_. Finding a way out from being culled, getting in contact with Rufioh and then everything that had come after that, it had been glorious. Wondrous. 

Your heart is full of delight and sometimes you can’t stop yourself from dancing just from the joy of it.

Being free is all you’ve ever wanted, your whole life. You’d been hatched to be told what to do and who to be. Hatched to be bent into the correct forms, the right shapes. As though everything you were, everything you could _be_ was bounded by the limits of your blood. You refused. You would not be crushed like that and twisted, pruned and _scalpelled_ like a bonsai into the shape that those of your _superiors_ deemed acceptable.

You pity Rufioh with everything in you, and to think you’d met because he’d been lurking on anime sites and trying to improve his East Beforan. Such a fucking poser; at his cardiopusher, he’s small and afraid, a fake shell of confidence, and you pity him so intensely because of it. Everything that makes the Lost Boys think he’s the best leader they’ve ever had is a lie.He lies, all the time.

He can’t help it. He’s been told since he was hatched that he was lesser, nothing, inferior - mutant. That he didn’t deserve his wings, that he wasn’t meant to fly. And even now, when he’s free to fly, he still hears those voices bringing him down with a painful thump to the earth. You’ve found it easier to shred the bondage that your would-be cullers wanted to foist on you. You’re free now to be whoever you want. You’re free to do whatever the fuck you want to, and if you swear no one gives you a look like they’re horrified at what has just come out of your chirpblister.

You can be useless and lazy if you want. You can watch animes all night and into the day with Rufioh, both of you cuddled up on a comfortplank together. And if you feel like it, you can do a little more than just cuddle. You just make sure the blinds are pulled down first, although they are more often than not. Having a stray ray of moonlight across the vidscreen and blurring the picture would just ruin the mood. There’s something about the particular shade of pink the moon is that does terrible things to video images. And besides, like you need any of the other troll teens hanging around here avoiding being culled looking in on what you’re doing. You’re not that much of an exhibitionist. 

You run your hand through Rufioh’s hair, and feel him shiver. You can feel your lips quirk into a smile, and you can feel the stir down between your hipbones, in your grubcradle. The thing that you were meant to use for the glory of Beforus, and that now you only use as a garbagedray. There is something you very much enjoy about using your grubcage for absolutely fucking nothing, when you were meant to use it to build the Empire that told you’d be worth nothing more than that.

A birther. A cradle. A moobeast bitch. When the Empire of Beforus took such good care of you, why wouldn't you want to give back? Why wouldn’t you want to be pampered and cosseted, wigglered by Jades? There are so many of your blood so happy with how things are.

You swing yourself around, wiggling with dexterity to sit on top of Rufioh and move your hips over him with smooth decision, your knees pressed against the outside of his thighs. Your hands pressing on his chest as you smile _smile SMILE_.

This is your choice. This is your life. And you’re going to do with it, whatever the fuck you want to do. Right now, what you think you want to do - is pail your matesprit. It sounds like a good idea to you. “Rufioh-kun,” you hum, and wiggle in anticipation. Feeling the skin of your thighs rub over the silk of his boxers, your pleated skirt rucked up to your waist. Underneath, you’re still wearing panties, but you can feel the silk growing slick with these very unsanctioned feelings that swell somewhere inside your pusher and then sweep through your body like fire. As dizzying and delicious a feeling as the ones when Rufioh flies with you, your uncertain grasp of your psionics alleviating the burden of two bodies weighing down his beautiful wings. You haven’t crashed _yet_. Or been caught. You’re sure it’s all your previous culler would _love_ to be able to do - find you and sink you back into soft cosy _weak_ bubblegum, acting like you were a drooling incompetent just because your blood ran hot and at the bottom of the spectrum. _Bitch_. Every breath you take outside of her control is a blessing. “Ru-fi-oh…”

“Feels like, uh, you’re feeling pretty frisky, doll,” he groans softly and you smile, showing your teeth as reaching up to your throat, you unclip the tie from where it sits beneath the Peter Pupa collar and start slowly unbuttoning the line of buttons that lead down your chest, your torso to expose the soft show of your camisole underneath. He shifts a little on the comfortnubs, getting his wings comfortable and spread awkwardly underneath him but you love being on top and you don’t feel like relinquishing your position. “Mmm...I’m not complaining though, no way…”

“You better not,” you sniff, and grind down against him again. He doesn’t say anything, wisely, just smiles crookedly to show off his fangs as he rubs his hands over your thighs, and up to your hips. It’s a touch that gives you the ability to go on. Gives you the confidence you need to move on, and then you shift enough to remove your panties. Slide them down one leg, then the other. Kick them off somewhere to the side, feeling the silk of Rufioh’s boxers against your inner thighs and the sticky contact of cloth meeting the first seep of pregenemat making its way from your awakening nook.

Outside of this isolated treehive, all that matters is your bloodcolours, the fact that you’re both scum. You’re both lowblooded, so warm that everyone would say that you wouldn’t know what you want to do with your life, that you wouldn’t have the right to decide. You both have only less than ten sweeps to call on for what you know of life, and nothing like the coolerbloods who might have been called upon to cull you, with all their wisdom and much vaunted experience. Fuck, you hate them all. If you hadn’t met Rufioh, if he hadn’t shown you there was somewhere, some _one_ to run away to, where would you be now? What would you be now? Another obedient sakura blossom girl, smiling shyly and making the connections your culler encouraged with other good little cullbait? 

It makes you sick to think of, what you could have been instead of free and Lost.

But you are Lost, and you have absolutely no fucking intention of being found.

“Oh, hey, uh, you’re not wearing a holster,” he notices finally, and your smirk grows wider somehow. You give a little wiggle, just enough to make things even more interesting for both of you. His hands travel up slowly, pushing your camisole up so he can cup your rumblespheres, thumbs sliding past the rusty-shaded spots of your nipples.

“Nice surprise?” you coo, and he smiles back at you. The way he smiles, it makes your cardiopusher dance and do somersaults in its safe place behind your thoracic struts. 

“Heck yeah, baby doll,” he agrees, and you lean down to kiss him as he strains up a little. It’s satisfying, and oh so perfect. The two of you shift with the ease of long practice on using this comfortslab for reasons other than its intended purpose, Rufioh’s boxers getting pulled down so now you’re bared sheath to sheath and the feel of your bulges intertwining makes you chirp.

Rust red, bronze bright. You love your colours, you love them together and you love them apart. There’s nothing wrong with either of you, you are not weak or wanting. You need nothing but this, nothing but flushred pity and freedom. His bulge snakes into your nook and you throw your head back, fronds steady on his chest as you start to move.

Easy movements, back and forth, grinding down against his hips as your knees go red from the rub of the comfortslab’s rough fabric. Rufioh’s hands stay on your hips, steadying you as you gasp for air, feeling the rush of your body doing everything that it shouldn’t be doing. Being free, feeling pleasure. Being _alive_ in a way that really matters.

Rufioh lets out a deep groan, and finally his hand comes up to stroke your bulge, other hand slipping down to let his fingers splay across your ass. The material of your skirt is bunched and covered in genemat from both of you, spots of rust, dots of copper. You can feel the rhythm building in your bones, across each tingling nerve as you move forward and back, the wet slap of Rufioh’s bulge twisting in your nook an undercurrent to the noises you’re both making out of your chirpboxes.

Trilling, something high and coquettish, you lift one of your hands to your chest to rub strongly at one of your grubscars. You’re so close - so close - Rufioh’s bulge twists inside you just _right_ , his thumb presses down on the tip of your bulge and you - _oh YES_ -

You come apart, dumping burgundy-red slurry all over Rufioh’s lap and your much abused comfortslab. Disgusting, perverted - there’s no sign of a bucket anywhere, and you didn’t even put a sheet down. It’s a good thing you don’t give one single flying squeakbeast shit about your fucking furniture. Nothing about this is sanctioned, nothing about this is legal - and that’s what you love about it. You can’t help but squeak as Rufioh grabs at your hips and thrusts up into you hard, teeth digging into his lower lip, focused look in his eyes and nostrils flared. The hoop of his septum ring glitters as you bounce against his hips, catching his rhythm and your nook still squeezing and rippling around his bulge as he finally spills hot inside you. Just enough cooler than you, that you can really feel it. Once you’re both finished, you slump down onto his chest and twine your fingers through the sweat-damp lock of hair hanging by his ear. He kisses your forehead and you hum happily. This is all you want. You don’t want to think about this changing, you want to be here forever. Safe and loved.

“Daisuki,” you murmur into his ear, and his hand clutches at you a little harder. You’d laugh if you had the breath for it, but you’re still panting. “Rufioh-kun…” Daisuki, the red flush of pity in your chest breathes, daisuki, anata. If you’d had the eyes for it, you would have sworn you could see a red thread of fate connecting your graspers, if you just looked the right way. Rufioh’s cardiopusher loud in your auricular clot, you let yourself slip into something of a doze, and feel his hand stroke fondly down the length of your back. You feel safe. You feel loved.

Looking back on this night, on all the nights and days you spent throwing your pity away and blind to how weak Rufioh really was, you curse yourself for a fool. Things changed, things _always_ changed. Entropy increased, it never stayed stagnant. There is no such thing as a perfect moment.

Still for a time at least, you suppose, you had cherry blossoms in spring. If you hadn’t realised that your love was as fragile as the pale blossoms, then that’s on your head and you’ll wear the ashes of it as a reminder. Now you smoke and sneer and you barely speak Common Beforan anymore, unless it’s to be as filthy as you can possibly be. You taunt, you tease, you scream. You are so _angry_. Even when you’d been on Beforus and kicking back against your culler and all her stupid rules, you had thought you had been as angry as you possibly could have been. 

Rufioh and Horuss have proved you oh so wrong.

The red string you thought you had has snapped, and all that leaves you is adrift. The memory of the treehouse and the Lost Boys is both a blessing and a curse, just like the dreambubbles themselves are. Fucking Meenah, doing things she didn’t fucking understand and dragging the rest of you along with her. But you suppose in the end, every choice you all have made has led to this you, to this point. And if your red string of fate has snapped and left you lonely, you suppose in another way it just makes you free.


End file.
